


There's No Remedy, for Memory

by awritersdaydream



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awakening, Comfort, F/M, Grief, Tension, intimate conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1921113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awritersdaydream/pseuds/awritersdaydream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While wandering the castle, Sansa finds comfort in a strange room, with a strange man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's No Remedy, for Memory

**Author's Note:**

> This was another request I received on Tumblr and thought I would share it here, as well. Just for reference, the timeline is early Season 1, just after Lady dies and Petyr is choked by Ned outside of the brothel. Enjoy!

Since arriving in King’s Landing, Sansa has taken to roaming the castle.

The best time to roam, she learns, is in the daytime, when everyone else is off fulfilling their duties. King Robert has his small council meetings, which also involve her father, while Arya and the others are off playing without her. She doesn’t mind. In fact, she welcomes the solitude. The quiet halls are a much needed reprieve from the busy and chaotic atmosphere of the capital.

Unfortunately, it is hard to find a quiet time or place within these walls. It is unlike Winterfell, where when Sansa was feeling angry or sad she could escape to her room and shut out the world. Here, her room feels too cramped, too foreign and unwelcoming. She longs for the warm fires and large furs she used to spend hours under.

She longs for home.

Sansa finds herself wandering the castle more often since Lady’s death. The pain of losing her still resides deep in her chest. Most nights, it feels as if a brick has wedged itself between her lungs, _pressing_ and _pressing_ until all the air disappears. Those nights she jolts herself awake, gasping at the still night air and attempting to slow her pulse, to calm her aching chest. She is uncertain if the tightness she feels is due to her grief over the loss of Lady, or the unfairness of it all. Sometimes, when she is truly sad, she imagines a knight swooping in and stopping the trial. The knight bows before her and orders Lady’s freedom from the cold clutches of royalty. Then, together, they ride out, all three of them, and he takes her far, far away.

This thought is enough to calm her and allows her anguish to go on unnoticed. If there is one thing Sansa has observed since arriving here, it is that people do not pay attention to details; they hardly pay attention at all unless it pertains to the king and queen.

Sansa finds this fact to be incredibly useful, especially when exploring the castle.

She walks along the cobblestone path, each room unique in its design. Most doors are closed, which disappoints her, but on good days, lucky days even, Sansa finds one open.

As she rounds the corner, she sees a light at the far end of the hallway, coming from a room that seems shoved in the corner, almost like an afterthought. She walks closer towards it, discovering that the door is ajar, with only a sliver of room bared. Sansa looks in, oddly curious at the unique shape.

“Come in,” she hears a voice say.

She gasps, knowing now that wandering alone is not something that proper ladies should do. It is unfitting and unladylike and _wrong_. She thinks of Lady’s death and wonders what kind of consequences an unaccompanied girl peering into strange rooms would bring. She doesn’t want to find out.

“It’s all right,” the voice says again. Sansa notes the weak tone, the slight crack. “I know you are there.”

 _I could run_ , she thinks. No one would know. She would stop her roaming and remain in her room, working on her knitting and only coming out for meals. She wouldn’t ever have to risk anything again. The thought sticks in her mind for a moment.

She _could_ do that, but something in his voice makes her think she will not have to.

She opens the door slowly, taking in the desk facing the wall and the small table located on the far right side of the room. She sweeps past the half-drawn curtains and the small water basin before resting on the man in the bed. She recognizes him, is sure she has seen him in the small council, but forgets his name.

Instinctively, Sansa closes the door, the fear of being caught flooding her reason. He does not say a word as she enters, which allows her to decipher why he is in this particular room. He is perched up in the small bed, the covers drawn up to the middle of his chest. He is wearing a green, silky type of outfit, one best reserved for night clothes. Sansa focuses on the patch of hair on his chin; she is drawn to the grey hairs budding on his head.

“Sit,” he tells her, and slowly gestures to the chair next to the bed.

Sansa jumps a bit at his sudden statement, but does as he says.

As she settles in, she can see more of his appearance. His day old scruff, his large, round pupils and calm demeanor. She cannot help but be fascinated by him and this little room in which he is staying. She is so curious, in fact, that she cannot help but ask.

“Why are you in this room?”

He shifts slightly and turns to look at her. “This is where they keep those who are ill.”

“What happened to you?”

“There was a misunderstanding with another man, a man stronger than me in strength but not in wits,” he smirks, “He became very angry and I’m afraid my neck took the brunt of it.”

Sansa looks at his neck, but sometime during her first observations of the room he had pulled the covers up so nothing is exposed aside from his face.

“Will you recover soon?”

“Oh yes,” he says, his voice taking on a frustrated tone. “It is not a bad injury. I tried to tell them I was fine, and that I did not need such an unnecessary room, but sometimes wise voices fall on deaf ears. Remember that.”

Sansa makes a note of his words, finding them to be unfamiliar and interesting, just like himself. In Winterfell, the only lessons taught were through her Septa or her parents. And even so, they never used language such as this.

Suddenly, he reaches over to the water basin, his body half-way turned towards the small table. Sansa sees his mouth contort in pain, watches as the covers slowly fall away. She opens her mouth to gasp but covers it quickly to mask her rudeness. Bright red and purple blots mark his skin from his neck and down to the top of his chest. The marks look angry, and Sansa now understands why they kept him here in this room. She imagines him getting pushed up against a wall, hands clasped around his throat tightly, the air escaping his lungs and refusing to be let back in.

She recoils at the image.

He must sense a change in attitude, because he turns back around before touching the water basin. He gives her a tight smile. “It looks worse than it feels. Only a few days of bed rest and I will be fully recovered. Truthfully, lying around is the hardest part.”

A strange feeling washes over Sansa, a feeling of deep compassion and the urge to soothe. She does not agree with his statement, but feels compelled to help this strange, sharp man.

“Let me,” she says and before he can protest, she rises from her chair and walks over to the water basin. She carries the basin and some fresh cloth back to her seat, scooting in the chair so she is right next to the bed. She quickly realizes, however, that this position is still too far, and decides instead to sit on the bed.

“Please,” he starts, “You don’t…”

He trails off and she does not bother to fill in the gaps. She takes the cloth and soaks it into the water. It is warm, and Sansa takes her time wetting and drying the fabric to perfection.

She is concerned for this man that she has only just met but she does not know why.

She drags the cloth over the top of his chest and up his neck, with his silk gown covering every other inch of his body. She cringes at the damage done to him, at the bruises inflicting his skin. She tries to be extra careful with her movements, keeping the cloth light on his body but the water heavy on his chest. Though her focus is on his injury, she cannot help but feel his eyes burning into her skin. She sneaks a look at him, realizing he is studying her features. His eyes wander over her face, her hair, and down her dress. Sansa blushes at the scrutiny, but continues on with her task.

“Now tell me,” he says, his voice low but light, almost like a whisper. “Why were you wandering the halls?”

Sansa leans back. “I got lost.”

He can see through her lies, though she does not know how.

He presses his lips into a thin line. “You do not have to lie to me, sweetling. I will not tell anyone.”

She hesitates, until the need to confide in someone becomes so strong that she forgets her manners, forgets her wits and begins speaking freely. “I like to walk around the castle because it clears my thoughts.”

“And why do your thoughts need clearing?”

“My direwolf, Lady, has died.”

 He frowns, and she can see the wheels turning in his head. For what purpose, she cannot say. “How did this happen?”

Sansa knows if she speaks a word of what truly happened to anyone, she could face punishment. She decides to give as much detail as is safe. “She was killed.”

“I am sorry for your loss. It is always hard losing something or someone you care very much about.”

“Thank you…” She trails off, realizing that she never remembered his name. “I am sorry, I do not know how to address you.”

He touches her hand, and the sudden movement forces Sansa to look him in the eyes. “Call me Petyr.”

She swallows, and he watches the fluidity of her neck. Sansa’s heart begins to race, his eyes burning holes through her once more. She feels the warmness of his hand on hers, the tense proximity between them. She does not recognize this feeling, cannot identify the emotion. Her head swims and she tries hard to stay afloat. She wets the cloth and begins again, running the smooth material over his neck and chest. Just as she is about to glide over his collarbone, he captures her wrist, startling her.

“Only those who have experienced great pain can truly understand how fragile life is, how fleeting a moment.” He says huskily, “Always remember this: life is not a song, sweetling, though it seems you may have already learned.”

His gaze levels with hers, the intensity of his eyes rooting her to the spot. The hand around her wrist loosens but does not release. She hears nothing but her erratic heartbeat; she sees nothing but his piercing gray-green eyes. Suddenly, the closeness becomes too much and she clears her throat, breaking the moment.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Petyr.”

Slowly, he loosens his grip on her, leaving Sansa’s wrist still outstretched and floating in the air. The atmosphere of the room changes, it becomes heavy and claustrophobic. Sansa’s heart still beats frantically until she hears a noise from outside.

She jumps out of her reverie, realizing that she has stayed for far too long. “I should go.”

“Yes,” he agrees, another smirk forming on his features, “You wouldn’t want to get caught.”

She stumbles off of the bed, her head still light from their conversation. His words continue to echo throughout her mind as she drops the cloth next to the basin and walks unsteadily towards the door. Before her hand reaches the doorknob, she turns around, a genuine feeling of gratitude flowing through her.

“Thank you for kind words, sir.” She bows out of habit.” I wish you a quick and painless recovery.”

She leaves the room quickly, refusing him another chance to speak. Even after she closes his door and hurries back to her room, she is unable to forget the encounter. Every time she thinks about it, about his closeness and his words, her heart races and a nervous pit grows in her stomach.

As she lies down in her bed that night, her head fills with thoughts of him. His beard, the feeling of his hand around her wrist, the intense look in his eyes. She can still feel his grip, not tight enough to hurt but hard enough to make her _remember_.

_Life is not a song, sweetling._

She thinks about his words, his gentle tone. She does not have many friends in this castle; she cannot even consider her own sister an ally, but his attentiveness and concern make her think that maybe, just maybe, she is not alone in this harsh and frenzied place they call King’s Landing.

Maybe she does have a friend, after all.

That night, Sansa falls asleep thinking of that corner room, of the desk facing the wall, and the anticipation of a slightly cracked door at the end of a hallway in the day to come.


End file.
